


The Moment I Knew

by ans8812



Category: Chicago Blackhawks - Fandom, Hockey RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, Family Issues, Heartbreak, Hockey, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ans8812/pseuds/ans8812
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Patrick Kane's 27th birthday and almost everyone he loves is gathered for a party at his parents' house in Buffalo, NY. But what is he supposed to do when the one who means the most to him is the one who didn't show?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moment I Knew

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be done for Patrick's 27th b-day in November, but it turned into something much longer than originally expected. Please note, I am not in any way proficient in Russian or French, so if it's wrong please let me know and I will change it. I did spell out the Russian phonetically rather than write the actual Russian letters and words because it's easier to read. However, if it's not right, I really want to know so it can be corrected. I'm not trying to insult anyone, just be kind of true to life.
> 
> I ship Kazer as hard as the next person, but I wanted to try something new with 8872 because I think they're a cute pairing. This Taylor Swift song came on the ol iTunes, an idea was born, and this fic is the result. I hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment or a kudos if you like it :) Constructive criticism is always appreciated too!

November 19, 2015

 _27\. 27. 27. I’m 27. 27. Fuck!_ The mantra looped through Patrick Kane’s mind as he looked at his face in the mirror, adjusting his tie and pushing back errant locks of unruly hair. The curls sprang back anyway. Jonny described it as eternal bedhead. Usually, a little gel would solve the problem, at least temporarily, but his boyfriend always complained the product made his hair too stiff and sticky when he ran his fingers through it. Jonny liked it _tout naturel_ as he would say in his native tongue – in its natural state. Silky curls that twine around his fingers and flow through his palm as though he were sifting through fine gold. Tonight may be the celebration of Patrick’s birthday, but from his perspective it was all about impressing Jonny and proving he could be better; he could be what Jonny needed forever.

            Patrick’s heart flipped in his chest and he smiled at the thought – no, dream, really – that after five years Jonny would finally make him his husband, especially given the events of the summer when he was sure Jonny would decide he’s had enough. That being in love with Patrick Kane, professional hockey player and party boy extraordinaire known as much for his antics off the ice as he was for his incredible talent and skills on the ice, came with too much baggage and uncertainty. The Chicago Blackhawks had just won their third Stanley Cup in six years and people – fans and the media alike – were calling them the new dynasty in Chicago, making comparisons to the Bulls during the Michael Jordan era.

            But the party only lasted so long before trades were being rumored and negotiated. The damn salary cap felt more like a punishment for doing well, and this year hurt more than any other previous as Sharpy’s contract was on the table. Sharpy had appointed himself a mentor to the young right winger during Patrick’s rookie year and quickly became one of his closest friend’s on the team. He was the first one who knew about Patrick’s crush on Jonny. It was Sharpy who made it his responsibility to refine the raw talent that already existed in Patrick’s being. He came to the team as a boy, eighteen, considered too small to actually make it in the NHL, but he was quick, smart, willing to try anything if it put pucks in the net and points on the board. Under Sharpy’s guiding example Patrick became a man and a damn awesome hockey player. He was a groomsman in Sharpy’s wedding and godfather to his firstborn daughter. So when the news came in early July that Sharpy and a couple other Blackhawks players were being traded to the Dallas Stars for a forward and defenseman, Patrick took it hard.

            Jonny was gone, hiking solo in the Andes to unwind from the grueling season and “discover himself” or some shit like that, so Patrick was spending time with his friends and family in Buffalo, New York. But they didn’t understand what he was feeling at the loss of Sharpy as a teammate. He was supposed to be on top of the world, reveling in his third championship, recognized almost anywhere he went, but he felt alone and suddenly uncertain as if he was a teenager all over again, entering the Blackhawks locker room for the first time. Except now he was considered the veteran, responsible for taking the new guys under his wing, but he wasn’t ready yet. He still needed Sharpy’s tough love and sage advice; he needed Jonny to be there as his lover and the constant calming presence to his impulsive nature. The season had just ended and already he felt the pressure of his teammates’ and coaches’ expectations in the wake of losing so many key players.

            Patrick drank. He partied. He took advantage of his status as a hometown hero. No one told him he couldn’t. No one stopped him or told him he was making terrible, rash decisions. Instead, they partied alongside him, buying him drinks, hoping his celebrity would rub off on them too. It was a few days before he was supposed to have the Cup for a day when everything spun out of control. The dust hadn’t even settled when he found himself at the center of a rape allegation, which he could neither confirm nor deny with a clear conscious because he had been blackout drunk that night. All he had to fall back on was his own character. Patrick knew he was not capable of what he was being accused. Not only would he never take advantage of another human being, but he would _never_ cheat on Jonny no matter how drunk he was. What he knew about himself didn’t matter, though. The public came to their own conclusions and character witnesses weren’t evidence in court. His families, teammates and true friends believed in his innocence. After some long talks with Sharpy and Patrick’s dad, and some pleading and crying on Patrick’s part, Jonny came around too.

            When the hockey season started, Patrick fast realized the whole league was on his side, and, as it turned out, having a rookie charge kept his mind preoccupied enough to almost forget about the ongoing legal case. Though the team has had a rough start, Patrick’s line – himself, his rookie Artemi Panarin and Russian defenseman Artem Anisimov – have been lighting it up every game. To top it all off, just a mere two weeks ago he was officially cleared of the rape charges. The team had been headed to New Jersey for a game the next night when his lawyer texted him, and he read it aloud to his teammates. _The judge is furious at the inconsistencies on the prosecution’s side. The accuser’s story won’t hold up in front of a grand jury. You’ve been cleared. Good luck tomorrow night, Patrick!_ The entire plane had erupted in whoops and cheers while Jonny leaned across the armrest to kiss him, deep and elated, ready to move forward to their future.

            Which is why tonight had to be perfect for Jonny. Patrick tucked in his shirt then turned with his arms outstretched to let his middle sister, Jess, survey his clothing choices. A teal button-down that Jonny said brought out the blue of his eyes tucked into fitted black pants and a thin, black and white gingham tie Jess had given to him as an early birthday gift. She was sitting cross-legged on his bed, sketchpad in her lap. As the resident Kane fashion police, her opinion was the only one that mattered right now.

            “What do you think?” Patrick asked, biting his bottom lip.

            Jess’s smile took over her whole face, “Very handsome, big brother. You are gonna knock his socks off.”

            Patrick smirked at the compliment and padded across the room in his own socks to find the shoes he had thrown into the closet while unpacking. Though the team had two more games in Canada before the Thanksgiving break, Patrick brought his luggage to his parents’ house where he planned to stay for the next week while the circus was in Chicago. The Blackhawks had three days off after the weekend before they would head out to California, and Patrick wanted to spend the time with his parents and sisters….hopefully making wedding plans with Jonny.

            “Do you really think he’s going to _propose_ tonight?” Jess stretched herself across the bed when Patrick sat at the edge to put on the pair of black Converse he found.

            “I don’t know for sure, but I hope for it,” Patrick could not stop the slow grin stretching across his face. “He kept asking about plans for my birthday and what you all would be doing, and he’s been so….distracted lately.”

            “He is so going to ask you to marry him!” Jess squealed.

____________________

 

            Patrick and Jess descended the stairs as Mrs. Kane opened the door for their first guests. Shawzy, Teuvo, Krug and TVR all but tumbled over the threshold, a mess of limbs, weird hair and eager hockey players. Shawzy kissed Patrick’s mom on the cheek in greeting while the other three waved and offered awkward hellos. Duncs, Seabs, Crow and Hoss traipsed in less than a minute later, stomping snow from their shoes and apologizing to Mrs. Kane for soaking the welcome rug.

            White Christmas lights were strung around the main room off the kitchen – probably the work of his sisters. A reminder that the holidays were fast approaching, but Pat Sr. and Donna refused to put up a tree or stockings on the mantle until after their son’s birthday. Patrick was in the middle of talking hockey stats and upcoming games with his uncle and line mate Anisimov when he felt a tap on his shoulder accompanied by a familiar little giggle. His rookie’s perpetually happy face greeted him when he turned, and Patrick couldn’t help but grin right back.

            “Happy birthday, Patrick!” Artemi exclaimed in his heavily Russian-accented, limited English, lifting a bottle of Russian Standard vodka. “For you. Russian. No American.” He made a disgusted face at the thought of being forced to drink cheap imitation vodka.

            “Aw, thanks, buddy,” Patrick chuckled and took the offered bottle, “but you didn’t have to.” Even the label was in Russian. This could not have been an inexpensive bottle of booze. He looked at the taller man standing beside the rookie. “You told him no gifts, right?”

            Fellow teammate and Artemi’s best friend/translator, Viktor Tikhonov, just shrugged. Artemi shook Patrick’s shoulder to regain his attention, his face twisted up in an annoyed, almost hurt, expression.

            “No gift, bad guest,” Artemi told him as if Patrick was the one in need of a translator here. Or manners. The 24-year-old rookie had only been in the United States for about four months, but he was quickly picking up English words and stringing them into phrases, though American idioms and jokes still confused him. It was good he was so smart because he was learning his English from the Internet and hockey players.

            “I’m sorry, Artemi. This is great. Thank you,” Patrick reassured his friend and line mate, squeezing his shoulder. He looked toward the front door as he took the bottle into the kitchen.

            “Hey!” his youngest sister Jackie called out excitedly. She was standing in a circle of relatives but broke away when she saw her brother. “Where’s Jonny?”

            Patrick shrugged, glancing down at his watch, “Don’t know, Jooks. He’ll be here. I bet he got stuck in airport traffic or something. I mean, he hasn’t texted or anything which usually means he’s driving. You know how he is about the rules of the road.” Patrick’s nonchalance and dim smile were not convincing to someone who knew him so well, but he was grateful she didn’t continue to prod. The din of conversation and laughter from the people he loved added to the familiar warmth of his parent’s house, the gentle clinking of plates and glasses a reminder they were all here for a party. The ambiance was everything he could ask for, and he wanted to be sharing it with his boyfriend. The only one who was now a half hour late.

            A loud burst of giggling laughter forced Patrick’s attention to the little Russian mob standing in front of the roaring fireplace in the main room. Artemi’s head was thrown back, laughing out loud at something Viktor said. The rookie looked so carefree compared to the timid kid who walked into the locker room back in August. Now, he was comfortable and content with his fellow countrymen, switching between English and Russian as he talked, using his hands and beautiful, expressive face to get his point across. Patrick noticed how the bright Christmas lights glistened off his gray-blue eyes and shined through his thick, wavy, dark-blonde hair. The media often commented on their similar looks and playing styles, and Coach Q put them on the same line right from the start because they were like magic together, much like the chemistry between Patrick and Jonny. Except Artemi and Patrick were barely able to communicate in the beginning yet they still managed to put up points every game.

            Artemi gravitated to Patrick, eager to learn hockey as well as English to connect to his new friend on a deeper level. At first it was hand gestures and simple words, some of which the Russian understood immediately and some he had to look to Viktor or Anisimov to translate. The guys joked that the new guy had a crush on Kaner, making Artemi blush and duck his head while Patrick laughed it off. Obviously they knew he was head over heels for their captain. He wouldn’t stray, not even for the cute rookie with the wild hair and contagious smile.

            So what was this tightness in his chest, right behind his heart? The same feeling he had when Jonny convinced him to ride the elevator to the top of the Sears Tower even though he was well aware of Patrick’s fear of heights. Any moment now Patrick expected Jonny to come bursting through the door with that “Baby, I’m right here” smirk, apologizing for his tardiness because he was Canadian and they were sorry for everything even if it was out of their control.

            But another thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Patrick had talked to every person in the room, laughed at their comments about his infamous playoff mullet, politely answered their questions about Jonny even if he was dying inside. When his mom asked if he was ready for cake, he asked her to hold off for another twenty minutes. Jonny was going to be here. He said he would. His boyfriend had not missed a birthday in five years no matter where they were. Plus, he hadn’t just imagined those jewelry ads he had found in August, stuffed in the bottom of Jonny’s underwear drawer, creased and wrinkled as if he had folded and unfolded them dozens of times and carried them around in his wallet.

            Jonny didn’t show. Everyone gathered to sing happy birthday while Patrick smiled and blew out his candles, hoping no one noticed his trembling chin. His mom had spent hours making his favorite German chocolate cake from scratch, but just the thought of eating made his stomach lurch. Her brow creased when he refused the huge piece she cut for him, offering an excuse of no sugar before a game, but she knew he was lying. A mother always does, especially when her dessert-loving son is refusing his own birthday cake. Her eyes went soft with understanding, turned down in sympathy, and she kissed his cheek before going back to cutting the cake for their guests.

____________________

 

            The party was winding down, guests trickling back home – or back to the hotel for his teammates – as Patrick sat on the 8-foot diving board over the pool in his parents’ backyard. The murmur of voices from the party reached his ears through the still, cool night, reminding him he wasn’t alone despite how he felt. Jonny never called, never texted, never made an appearance. The huge, cold, fluffy snowflakes falling on the skin not covered by his warm wool coat were comforting in their predictability. Patrick had always loved his birthday because it was the initiation of winter; when the ponds became frozen enough to skate on and the world seems calmer, more joyful with the anticipation of the upcoming holidays.

            “Patrick?” came a soft voice, deep, guttural, stilted English.

            “Hey, buddy,” Patrick felt the diving board shake with the weight of the 170-pound left winger sitting beside him, their legs dangling over the side.

            “No Jonny. Sad, you, _da?_ ”

            “Yeah, he’s supposed to be here.”

            “You fight?”

            Patrick turned his face toward Artemi, who returned his gaze with a confused one of his own. Unlike Jonny’s stoic expressions and guarded eyes, the Russian wore his feelings on his face; unashamed, eager, honest. “No, actually, we’ve been in a really good place lately….or, you know, I thought we were.”

            “He no make the face?” Artemi’s full lips pulled down, taking every facial feature with them in a near flawless imitation of Jonny’s intense game-face frown. Patrick laughed and Artemi smiled, dipping his chin to stare up at his teammate through his long lashes. He really was lovely sitting among the falling white flakes, some settling in his hair and on his broad shoulders, his gaze intent on the man beside him. Realization hit Patrick like a shock to the heart, forcing the air from his lungs. He inhaled and licked his dry lips as it all clicked into place; Jonny’s pushy competitiveness toward Artemi during practices, his sudden attentiveness to Patrick, the death glares when Artemi’s goal cellies with Patrick become too friendly, the hockey fights. He thought it was pent-up aggression due to Jonny’s goal drought and the mediocre performance of the team as of late, but that wasn’t the whole story. Jonny was jealous and maybe Patrick had given him every reason to be.

            Because every time that little Russian – well, actually, he was an inch taller despite what the roster stats say, but seven pounds lighter than Patrick – looked at him with that wide, infectious smile and those big silver-blue eyes, Patrick _felt_ something grip in his chest and coil deep in his belly. Fluttering, warming his entire body, making him forget how to breathe. The first couple times he thought it might be his body warning him of an impending heart attack. He had read an article about a link between athletes in high-contact sports and heart problems, but the trainer and the team doctor told him he was fine. Patrick anticipated practices because it meant time with his rookie, working on plays and strategy together like the language barrier didn’t exist between them, and that addicting, pleasurable feeling would come back. He never told Jonny about it, but his boyfriend wasn’t an oblivious idiot.

            “Patrick?” Artemi’s deep voice cut in, his brow wrinkled as he nudged Patrick’s shoulder with his own. “Where you go?”

            “I’m not sure yet,” Patrick shook his head to bring himself back to the present and the very cute, very sweet man sitting beside him on the diving board at his parents’ house. “Have you ever done something for so long that you’ve convinced yourself it’s right for you? Like, maybe it was right and good in the beginning, but you’ve both grown and changed and maybe it’s not meant to be anymore?”

            Now it was Artemi’s turn to shake his head, the wrinkle between his eyes deepening in confusion, “I don’t – too fast. Big words.”

            “You’re right. I’m sorry, Artemi,” Patrick sighed, shoulders slumped, and he dropped his head into his hands, tears threatening to spill over.

            “ _Nyet._ Talk. I listen. Learn. Want talk to you, Patrick,” Artemi placed a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. Patrick shivered, but not from the cold.

            “He said he’d be here.”

            “Jonny?”

            Patrick nodded, “And I thought tonight was, you know, _the night_. That he’d ask me to marry him, in front of God, our friends and family, and I would accept and we’d live happily ever after.” He snorted derisively, watching the fog of his breath float from his mouth into the night air. “Silly, huh?”

            “In Russia, not allowed for man to marry man.”

            “Yeah, I know, because your country is fucked up. No offense.”

            Artemi just shrugged, “I love Russia, but not agree with law. Can’t help who love. Jonny and you no marry?”

            “I don’t think so. Not anymore. I don’t think we’re even together anymore,” Patrick sniffled as the tears finally fell, leaving cold streaks down his cheeks. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat and dropped his chin to hide his unrestrained emotions from the Russian, but it didn’t matter because Artemi knew and he reached out to trace his thumb down the wet tracks on his friend’s face.

            “Patrick sad,” he whispered, resting his forehead against Patrick’s temple as sobs wracked his body. “I’m sorry.” Artemi’s thumb stroked the tears from his cheeks, his other hand rubbing soothing circles up and down Patrick’s back, and he let him cry for his loss; the loss of a love he thought would last forever, the loss of anticipation for a future with Jonny outside of hockey, the loss of a relationship in which he had invested the past five years of his life. Patrick turned his face into the crook of Artemi’s neck and felt strong arms wrap tight around him, cold fingers smoothing into the hair at the nape of his neck as the Russian rested his chin on top of his head. They remained that way, the younger man wrapped around the weeping older man, for several moments until Artemi took Patrick’s face in his hands and dipped his own head to touch their foreheads together. “I’m here. Right here.”

____________________

 

            Jonny called at midnight; the guests gone, party over, the leftover piece of cake Mrs. Kane had left out for Jonny just in case now in the freezer, Patrick’s twenty-seventh birthday officially over. He was lying in bed reading through the various Happy Birthday texts and social media messages on his phone when the caller ID lit up with Jonny’s name.

            “Hello?” Patrick answered, his voice pitching up like a question even though he knew who it was.

            “Patrick,” came Jonny’s familiar, smooth, Canadian-accented voice, “I’m sorry I didn’t make it.”

            “I’m sorry, too.”

            Silence, and Patrick wondered if he would have the decency to at least explain his absence.

            “Um, I – I, uh, I just – I don’t think we should do this anymore,” Jonny stumbling over his words was a strange sound. For a guy who spent a quarter of his life giving TV interviews and locker room speeches with the same perfection he did everything else, it was actually refreshing to realize he was flawed too. “I love you, Patrick, but I can’t be your boyfriend anymore. It’s not working. I – I think we’re better as friends.”

            “Yeah, so tell me the truth. How long have you been feeling this way? Is it because of what happened this summer? Am I just too much of an embarrassment for you?” Patrick spit back. Whatever sadness was lingering now turned to anger because it was easier if he could convince himself his boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – was an actual asshole.

            “What? No! You know me better than that, Patrick,” Jonny shot back, offended. “Honestly, I’ve felt this way for awhile, before everything that happened this summer, even before the playoffs last season. We were more like roommates than lovers, and it was affecting our game – both of us. It’s like we’ve been putting on this façade for the cameras and our teammates for the past year, but we’re both miserable and you deserve better than that. I just think we work better as friends. I don’t want to lose that part, Patrick, because I could – can – always count on you. We can get through anything together….just not as lovers.”

            Patrick closed his eyes and exhaled against the splintering pain in his chest. He may have seen this coming, but that did not make the heartbreak any less real. Tears he thought he had cried dry leaked from the corners of his eyes, trailing down his face and wetting the pillow under his head.

            “Yeah, Jonny, I know,” Patrick whispered, voice raw from talking and crying, exhausted from having to fake it around his family and friends. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

____________________

 

May 19, 2016

            The Blackhawks were unstoppable, barreling over their opponents in the playoffs to secure Lord Stanley’s place in Chicago for another year. They had absolutely railroaded the Dallas Stars, taking round one in a decisive four games, then knocked St. Louis out in five games. Tonight, they had taken down the Canucks on their own ice in the first game of the series that would determine the Western Conference champions. The Sedin twins had drawn first blood, Daniel assisting a hard one-timer by Henrik to send the puck past Crow only five minutes into the first period. After that, Jonny was on a mission and the whole team picked up the intensity, wearing down the physical Canucks by winning the races to the puck, evading hits against the boards, and creating traffic in front of the net to pull out a 3-1 victory on goals from Kane, Shawzy and Artemi.

            Patrick Kane was playing the best hockey of his life and leading the league in points and goals scored, but when asked he gave most of the credit to his Russian line mates. Mostly, he just liked to watch Artemi blush and become suddenly shy at the mention of his name to the media. The red flush that would creep up his sweaty face, cheeks already ruddy after a hard-played game, the sweet dip of his chin and those full lips pulled wide in a sly smile made Patrick want to push the Russian back against the wall and kiss him raw, then watch him kneel between his legs to wrap those red lips around his cock while Patrick’s hands gripped his thick hair. He wanted to pull him in by that gold cross necklace always settled against his breastbone and just ravish his beautiful body.

 _Shit, mind outta the gutter. Think about Duncs shaking all that nasty hair around, or Jonny’s dumb grump face….or Shawzy. Think about Shawzy._ Patrick shifted on the bench in front of his stall and leaned down to unlace his skates, grateful the reporters were more interested in talking to Jonny. Yeah, he was going to need a minute before it was safe to take off his hockey pants. They hadn’t even had a first date yet even though neither one of them were subtle about their attraction to each other. After the guys resigned themselves to the fact that Jonny and Patrick were no longer a “thing”, Seabs admitted he had noticed the flirting between Patrick and Artemi and the dancing around each other for months.

            “When are you two just gonna bang?” he had asked during a grueling practice before the playoffs. Patrick had rolled his eyes and shoved Seabs’ huge body into the boards before skating off to run a drill with Artemi and Teuvo. Flirting with Artemi was different than it was with Jonny. Not only was Patrick older and more mature, the Russian was much more emotionally aware than Jonny could ever hope to be. And they did not have to hide. Being a gay hockey player was taboo five years ago, and even though their teammates and the league were aware of their relationship, it took a while before Patrick and Jonny felt comfortable enough to come out to the fans and the media. None of that mattered anymore, and though Artemi’s home country had outrageous laws against gays, it was not an issue because he was playing hockey in America.

            As they walked to the charter buses across the players’ parking lot behind Rogers Arena, Artemi broke away from his conversation with their line mate Artem to rush up behind Patrick, giggling as he knocked his hip into Patrick’s side and fell into step beside him.

            “Hey,” Artemi’s impish grin made Patrick reach out to crook an arm around his neck, pulling him against his side just because he wanted to be touching him. “Artem want to know why you no ask for date.”

            “He’s married,” Patrick teased. “I had no idea he felt that way about me.”

            “Me,” Artemi frowned. “Ask me.”

            Patrick looked at the wide silver blue eyes gazing back at him, shining with excitement from the win and his general zeal for life mixed with….expectation? Jonny had given his blessing for Patrick to move on months ago so what _was_ holding him back? Maybe he wanted to make sure Artemi was not just a rebound, or maybe he didn’t want to ruin the friendship and on-ice chemistry they had? Because he was certain if they dated and broke up there was no way they could be friends after that.

____________________

 

June 19, 2016

            The Stanley Cup was returning to Chicago for another year – back-to-back, baby! – and the Chicago Blackhawks solidified their status as Chicago’s new dynasty with four championships in seven seasons. Patrick leapt into Jonny’s arms first, like he had done every year before, but there was no head pat, no kiss on his cheek or whispering in his ear. Instead, Jonny pulled back from the brief hug and gripped Patrick’s biceps, smiling down at him because they had just won the fucking Stanley Cup again, but it was the same show of emotion everyone else on the team got from their captain.

            “Good job, man. You’re in the running for league MVP for sure,” Jonny said, but his eyes were looking at something over Patrick’s left shoulder then he was skating away.

            “Yeah,” Patrick responded to the empty space in front of him, feeling off-kilter, then he looked up to see a smiley, enthusiastic Artemi pulling away from Anisimov and skating his way. There was no warning before 170 pounds of screaming Russian was flung into his arms, grabbing his face and smacking his lips against Patrick’s cheek.

            “Umm,” Artemi dropped back to the ice, looking down at his skates, now fully aware of where they were and what he had done. He mumbled something in Russian, probably berating himself, but Patrick was done waiting, done living in the past in some futile hope that Jonny would change his mind. Done denying the fact his future was standing bright-eyed in front of him. He took Artemi’s cheeks between his palms and lifted his face, pulling him in and their lips connected. A thrill shivered down Patrick’s spine and he swore he heard Artemi let out a little moan as their mouths worked together. Patrick’s hands pushed back through Artemi’s thick, wavy hair and the Russian’s fingers curled into the sides of his sweater as they kissed in front of the fans, Jonny, Coach Q and everyone. Artemi pulled Patrick’s bottom lip between his; gentle, wet, warm, sugary from the Gatorade they had been drinking all game.

            “Go out with me?” Patrick panted, leaning his forehead against an equally breathless Artemi’s.

            “ _Da. V tysyachu raz, da_.”

            Seabs skated up and pulled Patrick and Artemi into a congratulatory hug, “Finally!”

____________________

July 19, 2016

            Artemi stayed in Chicago during the summer break. He spent his day with the Stanley Cup exploring the city and enjoying the attention of Blackhawks fans and passersby on the street. He liked that attractive women smiled at him carrying a 35-pound silver trophy down Michigan Avenue, kids wanted a picture with him, the Cup and Buckingham Fountain in the background, the runners along Lake Shore Drive took the time to stop and congratulate him, and the shirtless guys playing beach volleyball even offered him a spot on their team. The best part, though, was doing all of this with Patrick at his side. Boyfriend. _His_ boyfriend. The implications of that title sent giddy shivers down his spine and a spike of desire straight to his heart, a sensation he would take a hundred times over winning another Stanley Cup if he ever had to choose.

            Patrick was like the sun illuminating the shadows in Artemi’s soul; the dark places he hid with a toothy smile and shy confidence taken over by the radiance of the sweet American with a halo of blonde curls and ability to know exactly what Artemi needed when he didn’t even understand himself. From the first time he set his gaze on Patrick Kane at training camp last September he knew he was in trouble because Patrick and Captain Jonny were a thing and their teammates were the cavalry any interloper would have to deal with first. Artemi was a patient guy, though. Hell, he had waited twenty-four years for his name to finally be called in the NHL; he figured he could wait for the implosion of a relationship already in freefall. He was glad he did, too. Artemi worked hard to earn his spot on Patrick’s line and they seemed to just _get_ each other despite speaking two different languages. For as much as he lost in life, that despair paled in comparison to the joy he felt every time he held Patrick in his arms.

            Later that night, Lord Stanley sat upon the coffee table while Artemi was folded against the arm of his sectional, texting his _dedushka_ in Russia while Patrick putzed around in his kitchen. The Cubs game was on the TV but it was just background noise. Patrick had been watching but then he got up and disappeared into the kitchen for who knows what and Artemi did not care for the slow game. He looked up from his phone and smiled as his boyfriend came back into the room carrying two steaming mugs. Patrick set one on the coffee table within Artemi’s reach, then curled his palms around the steaming mug still in his hands and settled onto the couch again, pressed tight against his boyfriend’s side. He sipped the coffee, silently watching the Cubs absolutely run away with this game against the St. Louis Cardinals. It only took a couple times of dealing with Artemi’s pissy attitude to stop asking questions when he was talking to or texting his family. If he wanted to share, he would; otherwise, Patrick resigned himself to the fact it wasn’t his business. Not yet, anyway.

            The Russian sighed, tossing his phone on the coffee table and picking up the mug Patrick brought for him. Three parts coffee, two parts sugar, just how he liked it. He took a sip, the sweet, smooth liquid warming his insides in the air-conditioned apartment, then just stared at the man beside him for a minute. He coiled into his boyfriend and rested his head on Patrick’s broad shoulder.

            “You okay, Tyoma?” Patrick dropped his lips to Artemi’s hair, right arm automatically wrapping around him.

            Artemi took another swig of coffee and nodded, “ _Da_. Was my _dedushka._ He say hi. Coffee good, Patrick. _Spasibo._ ”

            “No problem,” Patrick gently scratched his boyfriend’s scalp with his fingertips then rested his warm palm at the back of Artemi’s neck without taking his attention away from the Cubs game. But Artemi was bored within a minute, slightly irritated by the conversation with his grandfather, which increased his frustration of being so close to Patrick but still feeling like there was a barrier between them. They had been dating for a month yet their physical relationship never progressed beyond holding hands, cuddling and quick kisses. Not because _he_ was prudish. Hell no! He damn well knew his boyfriend wasn’t either based on what their teammates talked about in the locker room. It was like Patrick was resistant or….scared? His relationship with Jonny had consumed all of his adult life, whether it was their hockey chemistry on the ice or their weirdly intense, co-dependent on-again off-again, five-year love fest, and Artemi was not foolish enough to think Patrick was fine with how it ended.

            He was there to pick up the pieces, to hold the emotional American as he cried over the destruction of a relationship he had been convinced would eventually lead to marriage, to be the whipping boy when Patrick’s sadness turned to anger, and maybe he was selfish for thinking Patrick was better off, for thinking it all worked to his favor. Artemi never claimed to be an angel, despite what some of the fans thought. He took Patrick’s mug from his hands and ducked out from under his arm to set both of their mugs on the coffee table, then twisted his waist to grab the American’s face with both hands. His lips crashed onto Patrick’s, open and hot, their breaths mingling as Patrick responded with a soft, surprised moan. Artemi took the opportunity of his boyfriend’s open mouth to dip his tongue behind his lips, swirling it through the sweet saliva. He tasted of coffee and that sugary Irish Cream stuff he liked so much.

            Patrick grinned into the kiss and pulled his boyfriend across his lap to be chest-to-chest, Artemi’s knees bent on the couch, straddling Patrick’s thick thighs. He continued to explore the American’s honeyed mouth, licking and tasting until he had his fill, then he pulled back a little to suck on the wide, clever tongue in his own mouth and take Patrick’s full bottom lip between his teeth. Artemi savored the deep moan that emanated from his boyfriend’s chest and felt hands come to rest on his neck and collarbone, applying just enough pressure to match the passion of their lips and tongues working on each other; reminding the Russian of his other needs. He was well aware. In fact, he could feel the evidence of Patrick’s need against his inner thigh, and his own was pushing at the zipper of his shorts almost painfully. The original plan had been to have his boyfriend so worked up that he would be a writhing, moaning, wet mess begging for Artemi’s cock to send him over the edge, but now he was thinking that plan could wait. In this moment it was all about both of them getting off with mutual satisfaction; he wasn’t sure either of them would even last very much longer. The past nine months were the foreplay leading up to this glorious circumstance.

            Artemi sighed, allowing a little moan when Patrick sucked on his bottom lip, worrying at it with his teeth, sending volts of pleasure to Artemi’s belly. His response was a quick slide of his hips against his boyfriend’s crotch, the rough fabric of his shorts rubbing on his erection with delicious friction, and Patrick let out a moan of his own before spreading hot, open-mouthed kisses down the Russian’s chin, jawline and neck. Patrick’s lips and tongue found the pulse point at the base of Artemi’s throat, nipping, licking, teeth gently scraping against smooth flesh until they were both certain there would be a hickey there tomorrow. Artemi’s hands smoothed up under his boyfriend’s shirt, hockey-calloused palms roaming across exquisite abs; every tight muscle pronounced and rippling under warm skin. He needed to see all of him, touch all of him. He hooked his thumbs around the hem and pulled the T-shirt up over Patrick’s head, who grinned and immediately went back in for a kiss.

            Fingers delved into the American’s tousled blonde curls as Artemi offered up his juicy lips again. This kiss was tender; Patrick’s right hand wrapped under his boyfriend’s chin to hold him close, his left fisted in his shirt, tugging to express his displeasure with the clothing to bare skin ratio. The Russian complied by breaking contact and lifting his arms over his head, blue eyes challenging, mouth quirked in a half-smirk. _God, he’s a beautiful tease!_ Patrick wanted to absolutely devour him so they would both be walking funny in the morning. He could, too. They had nowhere to be. Then Artemi was shirtless and Patrick might have forgotten how to breathe for a second. All he knew for certain was he had a chiseled, Russian god in his hands and the pressure in his loins was nearing unbearable. Patrick admired his boyfriend with his hands, palms smoothing up the younger man’s torso and hard pecs, their eyes meeting. He fingered the gold chain usually hidden under Artemi’s shirt; a simple gold cross nestled against the Russian’s breastbone, a gift from his grandfather when he was drafted into the KHL, a symbol of his faith in something higher than himself and a constant reminder to treat others with kindness and respect. In turn, Artemi ran his fingers along the necklace Patrick never took off and also kept under his shirts; a gold medallion depicting Saint Christopher, the patron saint of protection, given to him by his parents when he left home at 14 to play hockey in the Midwest, and a delicate heart engraved with his sisters’ names. Artemi’s big blues, now half-lidded, searched out Patrick’s, pupils blown, skin flushed.

            “Bed,” Artemi whispered, placing his palms on the American’s bare chest. He could feel the vibrant heart beat under Patrick’s skin, as wild and erratic as the man himself, but also just as strong and sure; a force to be reckoned with on the ice. Small, quick, talented, smart, the bane of every defender and forwards’ existence, and what piqued Artemi’s interest in the first place. But it was off-ice Patrick that captured his heart: honest, sincere, kind and passionate. Patrick reached out to stroke away the auburn locks that had fallen over the Russian’s forehead, then ran the pad of his thumb down Artemi’s cheek, eyes trailing his movements, admiring. His other hand tugged at the waistband of his boyfriend’s shorts.

            “Off,” he growled, swiftly undoing the button and zipper, pushing them down. Artemi lifted his hips slightly to allow Patrick’s hands to sneak inside, rough palms grabbing tight, fleshy Russian ass. Artemi moaned and let his head fall back on his shoulders when Patrick leaned in again, kissing, sucking, nibbling at his neck and shoulders, hands roaming and squeezing his bare ass.

            “Please,” he whined, breathy and desperate, slowly rutting his hips, “Patrick. Want….I want….”

            “Yeah, I want, too,” the American whispered hotly against his boyfriend’s throat, arching his back and forcing his crotch up to press against the other man’s undulating lower body. He pulled his hands from his boyfriend’s pants to cup the back of his head, making him meet his gaze again. Patrick kissed Artemi’s inviting lips then pulled back to see his lust-hazed eyes and flushed cheeks. Put there by him. “Babe….Tyoma, I want you, but I also _need_ you. You’re the best part of my life.”

            Artemi smiled and ran his hands up his boyfriend’s broad chest to his strong, corded shoulders, “Talk pretty later, Patrick. Right now just fuck me.” He couldn’t argue with that. Patrick let out a low growl, lifting Artemi off his lap. They left a trail of discarded clothing on their way to the bedroom where Artemi tugged Patrick down onto his queen-sized bed. The soft, cool sheets accepting their bodies, the mattress dipping slightly as Artemi landed on his back against the pillows with Patrick settled between his widespread thighs. He offered up his mouth for the American to take; covering his lips, noses rubbing together, tongues diving and swirling in each others’ mouths. Artemi teased Patrick’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting then soothing with his own lips; Patrick’s deep growl went straight to his erection.

            He lifted his hips and bent his knees up so his feet were flat on the bed, allowing complete and total access for Patrick to do what he wanted to Artemi’s body. It struck him how fully he trusted the man on top of him. Artemi had plenty of sex partners in his past, but none of them had ever been allowed into his home, his bed, and they sure as hell never got his clothes completely off before getting what they wanted and making him leave. He had never called any of them ‘boyfriend’ either.

            Patrick took advantage of his boyfriend’s distraction of his lips to reach down between their bodies and wrap a hand around the Russian’s fully erect cock. He was rewarded with a long groan and another buck of Artemi’s hips, sliding the thick cock along the delightful roughness of Patrick’s palm. He began to stroke up and down the engorged shaft, circling the head with his thumb, repeating his actions again and again. Artemi moaned, lips parted in a seductive ‘o’, his whole body trembling on the verge of release. Patrick’s hand wrapped tight around his cock felt so good! Reaching up, he hooked his arms around the American’s neck, pulling him down for a frenzied, wet kiss full of whines and tongue, teeth and lips, sensitive, velvet flesh being worked by Patrick’s calloused, famously good hands.

            The Russian was so close, caught up in the overwhelming pressure between his legs and the hurricane of emotions taking over his body and mind, so when Patrick’s hot breath and wrecked voice hit his ear with a, “Come for me, Tyoma. You’re so beautiful and I need you so much. Come, baby. Come for me. You can let yourself go because I’ve got you, baby boy. I’ve always got you,” that was it.

            The flood burst inside him. Artemi arched his spine, head pushed back into the pillow, eyes closed as he came. Thick, ropy cum pouring out into Patrick’s hand, chest rising and falling with harsh breaths as he tried to pull oxygen into his lungs that the force of his orgasm seemed to have left him without. He tangled his fingers into Patrick’s curls, blunt nails gently scratching at the scalp as he came down from his explosive orgasm. Suddenly, he felt his boyfriend’s hand sliding down to his ass, spreading his own cum around his hole and in his crack, and he reached to get a condom out of the nightstand. Artemi opened the small packet and rolled the condom onto the American’s cock, then he settled back against the mattress and let his hands roam his boyfriend’s perfect body. Fingers trailed down Patrick’s neck, the muscled plateaus of his shoulder blades, under his armpits to his hard chest. Patrick moaned, biting his bottom lip when Artemi’s rough hands rubbed over his hardened nipples before squeezing his pecs and continuing to massage the pad of his thumb across those perky nipples. The American’s cum-covered index finger circled the Russian’s asshole before pressing slowly inside, opening him up, listening to the desperate sounds spilling from his lips as his tight skin stretched around the invading digit.

            “Please, babe….Patrick, just fuck me,” Artemi breathed out, his Russian accent so thick Patrick almost couldn’t understand him anymore. He guessed he was about a second away from forgetting how to speak English all together. Patrick gripped his boyfriend’s thighs, positioning himself against Artemi’s cum-slicked hole. The Russian wrapped his legs around Patrick’s waist, heels digging into his lower spine, lifting his pelvis, urging him closer. Patrick leaned over to kiss his boyfriend again and threaded their fingers together, lifting both their arms to rest on the pillow above the Russian’s head as he began to push into him. Artemi’s entrance stretched so sweetly as the thick head of Patrick’s cock penetrated his hole. They both groaned, continuing to kiss and lick at each others’ mouths. Without warning, Patrick pulled out and thrust all the way into him with one swift motion.

            “Oh _fuck_. Mmmm, Patrick….so good,” Artemi’s hips bucked under Patrick, meeting his deep strokes, sweaty bodies moving against one another in synchronized rhythm. The Russian held tight to his boyfriend’s hands and gave himself completely over to the carnal pleasure between his thighs, accepting each forceful thrust of Patrick’s hard cock into his ass, loving how it filled him up only to slide out and make him crave more. Patrick dipped his head to drop hot, quick kisses along Artemi’s clavicle, down the shallow valley between his pecs, then pressed their foreheads together as he fucked the man under him. Their bodies picked up pace, both men softly grunting and moaning as Patrick’s thick cock pounded into Artemi’s tight heat, his balls smacking against the receptive man’s ass with every hard thrust burying him in deep and their pieces of jewelry clinking together like a sexual symphony. He released the Russian’s hands to lift his legs with the inside of his elbows under Artemi’s knees for a different angle.

            Artemi gripped his boyfriend’s forearm with his right hand while his left stroked down Patrick’s body, over the sexy gold chain and pendants hitting against his breast, through the pattering of crinkly hair across his chest, light fingers trailing over the sexy ridges of his abs, his thumb rubbing up and down through that treasure trail of hair from the American’s navel to his pelvis. He wanted Patrick to feel as good as he was making him feel because he was sure he loved him, even if they have never said as much to each other. The Russian moaned and whined, bracing himself with his hand on his boyfriend’s chest, his cock receiving great pleasure rubbing between their bellies while Patrick’s thick, demanding cock filled him up. Faster; harder; Patrick’s grip on Artemi’s thighs tightened and his hips pistoned into him as he approached that peak of desire and ecstasy that only the receptive man’s body could give him. He looked down at his boyfriend writhing in his own impassioned rapture, eyes squeezed shut, lips slightly parted, hair tousled and sweaty, gorgeous body trembling and open all for him, and that was enough for Patrick.

            He gathered his Russian lover into his embrace so every inch of their sweaty bodies were touching – Artemi’s legs draped over Patrick’s thighs while he held him as close as possible with his arms wrapped around his boyfriend’s back, continuing to fuck him into the mattress with quick jabs of his lower body. Artemi nuzzled his face into the side of Patrick’s neck and buried his hands in his American lover’s fine but abundant blonde curls. He didn’t think men were capable of having orgasms so close together, but he felt like he was going to explode right now.

            “So close, baby. Look at me,” Patrick was whispering in Artemi’s ear again, hips grinding, cock hitting a particularly sensitive spot deep inside him over and over again. Artemi just whined and pulled his boyfriend closer, but Patrick gripped his hair hard and gave a light tug, forcing him to lift his face to look into Patrick’s light blue bedroom eyes. “You’re so lovely when you come, Tyoma. Your ass is so tight like it was made just for my cock. You are everything, baby boy. My everything.” With one final hard thrust, Patrick finally let himself freefall from that blissful ledge, crying out his own release, body shuddering as Artemi shot his second load all over their stomachs, but their eyes never strayed from each others’ faces. Patrick groaned at how his boyfriend’s tight heat clenched around his spurting cock, milking him of every last drop of semen as he continued rolling his hips into Artemi, hoping to prolong the waves of pleasure rippling through his entire being.

            He captured his Russian lover’s lips in a tender kiss; languid, gentle, tongue dipping into his mouth slowly as if they had all the time in the world to lay with each other. When they both finally returned to earth and their senses, Patrick’s cock softening inside his boyfriend’s sweet ass, he pulled out and rolled onto his back beside him. Artemi flung his arm out across his American lover’s torso just to keep the physical contact as they laid side-by-side, pulling in ragged breaths for several moments. Then Artemi turned his head to look at Patrick, eyes shining with mischief and that shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

            “I got you good, Patrick,” Artemi rubbed the back of his hand on his boyfriend’s abs, smearing his own cum on Patrick’s sweat-slicked skin.

            Patrick returned his grin, “Oh is that right, you naughty boy.” His quick reflexes allowed him to roll on his side and pull the squealing Russian against his body again, tickling and manhandling him to rub the bodily fluid off onto Artemi’s side. Their legs tangled together as Artemi tried to squirm away, but Patrick was strong and knew all of his most ticklish spots – that soft spot under his armpits, a certain place on his sides just below his ribs, the crease of the back of his knees.

            “Okay, okay, stop! Uncle!” Artemi giggled, pushing at his boyfriend’s hands, but Patrick leaned in to place a quick kiss on the top of his head before leaving the bed. Artemi reached out for him though, turning onto his side with a pout of his face, “No go! Patrick, stay!” He hoped to sound playful, but his tone came out too loud and panicked. If Patrick caught on, he didn’t say anything. He just looked back over his shoulder and smiled.

            “I’m just going to the bathroom to clean up real quick. I’ll be right back, baby.” The Russian watched his boyfriend’s cute ass retreat into the bathroom. He believed that he was telling the truth, but that seemingly ever-present coil of doubt still pierced his gut until Patrick was climbing back into the bed, cum and condom free. He brought back a damp hand towel to clean off his boyfriend too, then dropped the towel to the floor and slipped under the comforter. Artemi’s eyes were already drooping, his body heavy with exhaustion, and he didn’t protest when Patrick curled against his side, flinging an arm across his waist after pulling the comforter over both of them.

            “Mmm, _pokrovitel’, dobroy nochi_ ,” Artemi snuggled deeper into the pillow, his voice soft and muffled, and a second later his breathing was deep and steady.

            Patrick smiled and gently touched his lips to the back of Artemi’s neck, “Good night, Tyoma. You are sunshine. You make me so happy. Thank you.”

____________________

 

            Harsh light filled the room when Artemi was startled awake by a bad dream, his eyes burning from the sudden change from dark to light. His pupils were unprepared. He smashed his face into the pillow until his eyes adjusted to the late morning sunlight, then realized he was naked and incredibly warm, which was weird because he usually slept in boxers and a T-shirt and woke up shivering, even in the middle of summer. He was spooned against a hot, muscled body, his front against the other man’s back, limbs entwined, and he immediately tensed as a hundred thoughts and scenarios raced through his head at once. But those long blonde curls looked familiar and as the sleep fog lifted his brain finally registered that he was wrapped around his boyfriend. The events of the night before came flooding back. His morning wood poked against Patrick’s back and he watched the American sleep for a minute.

            Patrick looked so peaceful; long lashes brushing his cheeks, his torso rising and falling with each even breath. The sun highlighted his yellow hair on the pillow giving the appearance of a halo. His _pokrovitel’_. His angel. Artemi remembered their day with the Stanley Cup, how happy and content he felt. Then those messages from his _dedushka_ , the baseball game, and the sex. He remembered how Patrick’s gentle caresses turned his sadness into joy and desire, making him feel wanted and alive and safe; for the first time in his life he wasn’t left with that empty pit in his stomach after sex, and the doubting voice in the back of his mind telling him he was just a means to an end and to be happy with what he could get was noticeably absent. The fact he wasn’t waking up to a cold bed was enough to give him hope.

            He nuzzled his nose into Patrick’s neck, the day-old stubble on his cheeks and chin rubbing against freckled shoulders making his boyfriend twitch and stir from his slumber. Patrick sighed and groaned, rolling onto his back and blindly reaching out to pull Artemi against his chest and side. The Russian went willingly, tucking himself under the American’s arm and laying his head on his chest.

            “Mornin’, Tyoma,” Patrick dropped his lips into his boyfriend’s darker, disheveled hair, “how’d you sleep, babe?”

            Artemi smiled up at him, “ _Dobroye utro_ , Patrick. You tire me. I sleep well.”

            Patrick laughed and lifted the Russian’s chin to kiss his lips, “You’re a little shit!” Artemi laughed, his left hand toying with Patrick’s nipple, never wanting to look away from the pure fondness on his boyfriend’s face. “Hey, you make me happy. You know that, Tyoma?”

            Artemi rested his cheek against Patrick’s chest again, listening to his beating heart, and nodded his head in affirmation, “ _Da_. We stay in bed all day. I make you very happy, Patrick.” He turned his head to place a kiss on the American’s skin and playfully pinched him in the side with his other hand. Patrick rolled his eyes but giggled at the Russian’s cheekiness. He dropped his left hand to the back of Artemi’s neck, casually playing with the metal chain there and running his fingers along his boyfriend’s warm skin.

            “Oh I see how it is. Now that you’ve had my body, is this gonna be one of those relationships based on sex?” Patrick joked, but Artemi was immediately up on his elbows, frowning down at the American.

            “ _Nyet_!” he answered, too quickly and with too much force behind that single word for it to be teasing. His brows were drawn together, forehead wrinkled and those lips pushed out in a pout that would have been sexy if not for the angry fire in his dark blue eyes. “ _Nyet_ , Patrick, never!”

            “Babe, I was joking.”

            Artemi shook his head and continued to glare down at his boyfriend, “No joke, Patrick. You, me, no joke. Real. Understand? _Real_.”

            “Yeah, I’m not—I mean, obviously we have something that is more than just physical, Tyoma,” Patrick might have been hurt at his boyfriend’s lack of trust if he wasn’t so damn _confused_. Like, they went from light-hearted pillow talk to very serious Russian so fast his head was spinning! “Where did that even come from? You wanna talk about it?” He reached up to grip Artemi’s chin, rubbing his thumb along the day old stubble there.

            Artemi clamped his mouth closed, eyes darting over the American’s face, the muscle of his jaw working under his skin, clenching and unclenching, “ _Nyet_ , you not like me anymore. In past. You future.”

            “Babe, I _want_ to know your past. I want to know _you_. I’m not going to just stop liking you, Tyoma. You know about Jonny and other stupid shit I’ve done, but I feel like I don’t know that much about you. Please, let me in.”

            The Russian sighed and dropped his head to avoid his boyfriend’s pleading eyes, but Patrick sat up in the bed and hauled Artemi with him, manhandling him until he was facing him and kneeling on the bed, straddling one of Patrick’s thighs. The American held Artemi’s chin with his left hand and sifted his right hand through the Russian’s thick, loose-curled, dark blonde hair, ensuring Artemi could feel his touch and know he was not going anywhere.

            “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

            Artemi chose to focus on Patrick’s chest, fingers playing with the gold medallions nestled in the swath of fine hair near his heart, his thumb rubbing over the three names engraved on the gold-plated heart, “Um, I have much sex but never boyfriend until you, Patrick. I let them use me because I want too, but no love. I want forget sadness and family in Russia, but still feel empty until I meet you. You smile, laugh, kind, make me feel good. Safe.”

            Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, but they were all for Artemi; not pity, but sadness. He finally understood his boyfriend’s humility was not because he chose to think less of himself but rather because he had always been told he was never good enough and believed the lie that he was not worthy to be loved. He couldn’t trust people because the ones that were supposed to love him unconditionally all but threw him out in the cold because he liked boys. At the same time, though, the cute, smiley, compassionate, hockey-phenom Russian that, Patrick was pretty sure, would never intentionally hurt a living being, _wanted_ to have faith in people; in his teammates, at the very least. Patrick pulled his boyfriend close, kissing his temple and the top of his head before wrapping him in a tight embrace.

            “Baby, I’m sorry life has thrown shit at you,” Patrick whispered low against Artemi’s ear, “but I will do my fucking hardest to never do that.” Patrick felt all the tension drain from his boyfriend’s body as Artemi’s weight settled comfortably against him.

____________________

           

November 19, 2016

  _28\. 28._ _28_. _Holy shit!_ Patrick chose to go without a tie this year, but his non-gelled hair was errant as ever curling over his ears and the collar of his shirt. He smoothed a lock off his forehead only to have it flop right back down again and he sighed. The bedroom door flew open for a giggling Russian to launch himself at the birthday boy.

            “Happy birthday, Patrick!”

            He laughed as his boyfriend tackled him back to the bed and landed on his chest, peppering his face with light, pecking kisses along his cheek and jaw. Then those familiar, plump lips were moving over his in soft caresses that never failed to make the blood thrum in his veins; Patrick’s lips wet from licking them and Artemi’s dry because he was always losing his chapstick. Artemi kept his eyes open and rubbed his nose over Patrick’s, hands firm against his collarbone as their mouths slanted together. The blonde tangled his fingers through his boyfriend’s darker, thicker hair until his hands were on the back of his neck and savored the gentle kiss, responding with all the emotions he felt toward this boy.

            Patrick didn’t know if it was love; they had shared hundreds of kisses – some sweet and lingering like this one, some passionate and desperate – and fucked dozens of times in as many different ways, but he refused to make the same mistake twice. With Jonny, the fall was swift and he landed hard. They were best friends and convenient lovers and it just kind of….lingered. Until Jonny woke up one day and decided they weren’t actually in love. It was different with Artemi, and Patrick _wanted_ it to be different. They were taking it slow, enjoying each others’ company in the present while keeping their relationship out of the spotlight as much as two elite hockey players can.

            “Mmm, how about we skip the party and stay up here all night?” Patrick suggested, his pants feeling too tight all of a sudden. He pressed his lips against the Russian’s chin, his cheek, his eyelids.

            Artemi pulled back and frowned, “You said I meet your family as boyfriend. Not make good impression if birthday boy not at party.”

            Patrick chuckled, “Yeah yeah, you’re right, Tyoma.” He moved to sit up. Artemi backed off the bed and reached down to take his boyfriend’s outstretched hands, pulling him to his feet too. “Prepare yourself for the crazy.” Patrick kissed the Russian’s cheek as he took his hand, pressing their palms together and locking their fingers. But as soon as they hit the landing of the stairs, Donna Kane was welcoming Jonny at the front door with an enthusiastic hug. Artemi immediately shrunk back, shielding himself behind Patrick’s shoulder even though he was an inch taller, but Patrick crooked his arm around the younger man’s waist and gathered him tight against his side.

            “Hey, happy birthday, Kaner,” Jonny’s face lit up when he saw his friend, but Patrick swore his smile faltered when he noticed Artemi.

            “Nice of you to show up this year, Jonny,” Patrick commented. The captain’s face flushed, but then Patrick’s sister’s were on him, hugging and squealing and asking about his life as if he was still Patrick’s boyfriend. Old habits and all that, but he didn’t miss how Artemi tensed, his shoulders drooping and gaze fixed to the floor. They squeezed past Jonny and Patrick’s sisters to find Donna and Pat Sr. talking in the kitchen. Patrick’s mom had a glass of wine in her hand while his dad stirred the melted cheese in the crockpot near the stove.

            “Happy birthday, my firstborn,” Mrs. Kane set her wine on the counter before reaching up to take her son’s face in her hands and kiss his cheek.

            “Mom, Dad, I want you to meet my boyfriend Artemi,” Patrick began, gently nudging the shy Russian forward.

            “Hello, sweetheart, it’s so nice to meet you again,” Mrs. Kane hugged him.

            “Welcome, son,” Pat Sr. shook Artemi’s hand in a fierce grip and he nodded his gratitude. Then the party was in full swing. Teammates and friends mobbed the birthday boy with hugs and head pats while Artemi gravitated toward the only other Russian on the team. When Viktor was traded last December Artemi wanted to steal away in his suitcase and go to Arizona with his best friend. He couldn’t imagine navigating this huge American city on his own. Viktor was safe and reminded him of home. They had been playing hockey together in Russia since they were teenagers, and he was Artemi’s primary translator and English teacher other than the Internet. Thankfully, though, Patrick helped to bring him out of his “missing Viktor” funk, Artem took on the role of translator, and with those two on his line Artemi had played his best hockey yet.

            While he talked and laughed with Shawzy, Teuvo, Seabs, Moose and Jonny – who was becoming handsier with every drink – Patrick’s gaze sought out Artemi’s across the room and he smiled as though they were sharing a silent secret. Then Jonny’s hand was on Patrick’s shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt, tugging to regain his attention, and Artemi narrowed his eyes as the familiar jealousy coiled through his gut, as it did every time Jonny managed to capture Patrick’s attention. He knew it was absolutely ridiculous, and he wasn’t even worried about Patrick straying, but it bothered him how Jonny – who broke it off and splintered Patrick’s beautiful heart – seemed to think he still had some kind of hold over the right winger. Artemi respected him as his captain and fellow hockey player, but he was calling bullshit on Jonny’s intentions toward Patrick. He was about two seconds from going over there to stand between his boyfriend and Captain Handsy when a tiny blonde, who looked like the female version of Patrick, stood in his line of sight.

            “Hi,” she smiled wide and held out her hand for him to shake, “I’m Jess, Patrick’s sister. The best sister.”

            “Artemi,” he grinned and shook her hand, “Patrick’s boyfriend.”

            “You were here last year, right?”

            The Russian nodded his head.

            “Yeah, and you play on Patrick’s line, right? You’re really good!”

            Artemi blushed, his eyes darting across the room to see Patrick glancing his way again, a huge grin on his impossibly pretty face and his blue eyes dancing in the warm glow of the Christmas lights strung up around the room. “Thank you. I’m okay. Patrick good.”

            Jess snorted, “He tries. I mean, don’t tell him I told you this, but I totally kicked his ass in basement hockey when we were kids. Like, all that talent he has? Yeah, that was all because he had to keep up with me and my sisters.”

            Artemi laughed, his body finally relaxing as he realized the Kane family fully welcomed and accepted him. Yes, they loved Jonny because he was a huge part of Patrick’s personal and professional life for so long. They had wonderful memories with Jonny and considered him a close friend, but Artemi knew they were willing to do the same with him. He had let Patrick in to begin discovering the most intimate parts of his soul, and now he was willing to allow the Kane’s to love him as much as he loved their son and brother. Because he did; he _loved_ Patrick. For now, in this moment, that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Russian: (again, if any of these are not right, please let me know! Written phonetically, not in Russian)  
> Da - Yes  
> Nyet - No  
> "Da. V tysyachu raz, da." - Yes. A thousand times, yes.  
> dedushka - grandfather  
> Spasibo - Thank you  
> pokrovitel’ - it literally translates to "patron" but is a word for "protector" or "angel"  
> dobroy nochi - good night  
> Dobroye utro - good morning


End file.
